


Tenacity

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Complicated Relationships, Concentration Camps, Drinking & Talking, Hand Jobs, M/M, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Power Play, Reminiscing, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, Thomas Eichhorst <em>did</em> say Abraham Setrakian's good with his hands...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenacity

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing has wormed its way into our hearts. It's such a tragic *cough* love *cough* story.

_I was weak back then. Just a naïve, young man with no voice, no identity… only a number. And Eichhorst could see that in me. My weaknesses… fear. I knew it every time he looked at me, sneered at me. A monster, that’s what he was. He was a monster in every possible way, a monstrosity among men, and I could see him for who he really was— what he really was, even before he became a Strigoi…_

POLAND, TREBLINKA EXTERMINATION CAMP – 1944

It was a bitter and hoary evening again beneath the railway, the winter air seeping through the cement walls like death’s hand itself was reaching into Abraham’s chest as he worked away at the box. _His sole focus_. Stopping every once in a while to look over the drawn designs he was commanded to construct, not for reference’s sake though, just admiration. After all, he already had most of the blueprints memorized by heart.

The same went for his fingers, each trained well in their trade, tips numb and chipped like the wood he was whittling. But despite their condition, they were still meticulous, except only when he was paying attention. Unlike now. The long and late hours of crafting had him worn, worn like the engravings he was carving and he slipped, nicking his thumb, the chisel in hand falling from his grasp just as the cell doors were ripped open behind him.

Herr Thomas Eichhorst entered, ungainly in his steps as well as his misplaced charisma. His polished boots and dull uniform covered in white speckles of snow, speckled like the gunshots from the sleepless war outside. The dust falling to remind them that it was still raging overhead and would continue until the Soviet forces were stopped or invaded their position – which by then would be too late. Problematic.

Just like the elephant in the room.

“Did I frighten you, A230385?” Eichhorst whirred, one of his wispy brows arching with amusement as he took a profound sip from his common companion, the bottle, while trying to steady himself over the ruts in the flooring as he advanced.

_I was pathetic…_

“No, Herr Standartenführer.” Abraham lied, precariously picking up a wooden plane to shape the lumber as he bent forward and layered off a few shavings with hearty strokes. One at a time, at a constant pace. It was the least he could do, he figured. Working kept his mind preoccupied, seeing as he was still uneasy about the Nazi dog and his frequent visits. Just like he was suspicious about the whole camp, and not just because he was a Jew imprisoned under German regulation…

It was because of that cloaked devil he’d seen lurking around the bunkers at night – the one that fed off his brother and killed him whilst he slept.

_“Wunderbar.”_

The hum of praise cut Abraham from his recollections of death and misery, and kept him focused up until the point the German draped himself heavily over the box in a half-assed inspection, a _melodic_ inspection.

But Eichhorst’s drama was anything but sweet. It was sour; the stench of alcohol and smoky wurst hot on his breath, and Abraham couldn’t help but swallow visibly before he bowed his head in a submissive step away, which went unnoticed for the time being.

“I think we should celebrate.” Eichhorst droned, his blinks drowning with intoxication as he turned around in more than one tread, one palm on the table for support as he cheered the half-empty bottle to the frosty air. “Don’t you?”

Abraham felt his pulse quicken like a hammer against his lungs and his eyes tapered with his distrust as he slowly declined. His neck stiff like a rusted handle, and it took a few tries for him to actually shake his head _no_. But Eichhorst wouldn’t have it.

“You _will_ drink with me.” He guzzled, brazenly leaning forward to push the bottle against Abraham’s lips as if he was a baby that needed help. And it was only until after the Jew accepted the sip that he let up. “There we go.” It sounded like a coo, Eichhorst hiding his anti-Semitic enmity with a chuckle despite the fact that more alcohol ran down the front of Abraham’s ratty garb than his throat. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He tried to get the Jew to look at him and not the floor. “Hm?”

Abraham forced his eyes up, almost wishing that looks could kill. Especially when the bottle was pushed against his lips again, which – this time – he took into his grasp on impulse. The auburn glass was smooth against his callused hands, unlike his fake drink and pass back, which didn’t fool Eichhorst.

“What’s wrong? You deserve it.” The German’s tone was warbled alongside his contemptuous smile and cruel eyes, eyes that didn’t flux with his forged regard and acts of kindness.

Except when there was no reply Eichhorst let some of his true colors show, _tsking_ candidly as he snatched his drink back before pivoting away with a sharp wrist.

“You are too modest. A _goody two-shoes_.” He faced Abraham again with a spin on his heels. “But that’s what I like about you…” Eichhorst looked the Jew up and down slowly, like he was checking him out – not eyeing him as just a laborer or a tool…

But a carpenter with a marvelous gift.

“Tell me… Are you satisfied with your current status here at the trenches? No, of course you are not.” Eichhorst laughed, answering for Abraham as if he was judge, jury and executioner. “You _crave it_ like everybody else here, and would do what is necessary to obtain it within your grasp. Am I right?”

Eichhorst washed his sermon down with a gulp from his bottle, leaving some room for conversation – _waiting_ for conversation as he poked around at the different utensils sitting on and under wood shavings. Not knowing what did what exactly as he let some slip and fall to the floor without a care in the world, which went without saying that he was only interested in managing people. Not his hands.

Unlike Abraham, who tensed when realizing he was being baited to express himself, and despite his gut screaming for him to let the silence hold he eventually worked his mouth around a low, “…Obtain _what_ , exactly?” for fear of being maltreated.

And the Nazi’s eyes lit up at the question, like it was something he counted on being asked.

“ _Power_.” Eichhorst exhaled as if he was offering something of great significance than just mere words, something evil, like he was trying to tempt Abraham into seeing things _his_ way. The right way – the _Germanic_ way.

But the Jew wasn’t easily swayed… His grandmother taught him well.

“I already have it.” Abraham responded warily as he displayed his empty hands, holding them out in a telling gesture that he _had_ _power in them_ , and that it was just up to him how to use it. And for that, the brashness, Eichhorst smiled – almost smugly. But when Abraham flinched, remembering the wound on his thumb by its sting and overturned his hands, it faded. “I should really get back to work—”

Except a cat in gloves catches no mice, and Eichhorst was quick. _Too quick_. He lashed out, catching Abraham by the wrist with a squeeze, turning it over to get a better look at the cut.

“You hurt yourself.” Eichhorst murmured. Though it wasn’t really in concern. It was more like entrancement, and soon he became absorbed with the scratch, staring long and hard – the wax on the candles melting like the minutes.

_And that’s when I noticed it— the twinkle in his eye. He had a dangerous aura about him. It was threatening, something different besides his normal, overshadowing presence… It was curiosity._

“You know…” Eichhorst began softly with the tilt of his head as he licked his lips. “I have always wondered what blood tasted like.” He held the Jew’s hand steady as he pinched the wounded thumb, upsetting the skin for his own curiosity, all the while ogling it like it was food. “And to think that some need it in order to survive…”

Abraham’s brows furrowed with late realization just as Eichhorst pulled his digit into his mouth in a hard suck. And that’s when the dichotomy between prisoner and commandant stood out like a sore thumb – just like Abraham's thumb among his fingers, which he managed to free after a few hard tugs, cupping it like it was a precious child before trying to distance himself and get back to work.

But the Nazi loved hearing his own voice, and got tetchy when his hopes were amiss.

“Not entirely what I thought it would be.” Eichhorst smacked in disappointment, sucking at his teeth before he spat to the side. “But your hands…” He rubbed his together for warmth as he admired the beautifully crafted box amidst his pace. Then Abraham, whose eyes had plummeted to the floor, shoulders high and stiff. “They are _exactly_ what I predicted.” Eichhorst praised, walking himself close enough to let his breath itch the Jew’s neck in a heckling whisper. “So show me how _right_ I really was.”

Eichhorst’s hiss was enough to induce fear itself, though it wasn’t until he started fiddling with his zipper that Abraham _really_ became afraid. He wanted to think Eichhorst was going to piss in a pot again – he prayed it wasn’t leading to where his mind dreaded. But that’s when the Jew spotted a mean pair of eyes jeering down at him when he peeked up.

A mean, _hungry_ pair of eyes…

Herr Thomas Eichhorst parted the flaps of his pants, leaning back as he tried not to seem too interested in himself when he nodded below his belt in a thoughtful chew. “Go on now.” He was dastardly with his words, the zeal in his tone peaking pure narcissism as he finished the rest of his bottle, only to let it roll away on the table before opening his arms wide in an invitation. “Show me.”

But Abraham didn’t move, only stared and twisted the cuff of one sleeve awkwardly. He hated being at the German’s beck and call as it was, but this was too much and he shook his head gently, eyeing the box as if to silently say he wanted to continue working. Something the Nazi seemed more fixated on than anything else in the camp. Except not this time.

“Do not make me repeat myself.” There it was yet again – Eichhorst’s wicked tone, and after a curled lip for intolerance he snatched the side of the Jew’s neck and forced him to his knees with one, strong shove.

_I knew disobedience wouldn’t get me very far, perhaps a grave six feet under if I was lucky. But I wasn’t. I never was. Instead, I had to suck it up and do what I was told… It would have been foolish of me, otherwise._

Without a struggle, Abraham went down in front Eichhorst, down on both knees where he hunched hoping for a reconsideration. But when his hat was flicked for his attention and he stole a glance up, it was obvious the thought would never cross the German’s mind, not when he simply edged the Jew again with wider eyes and another nod.

And Abraham’s blood ran cold like someone had drained it from his veins when he slipped a hand where he was instructed. First one, then both, and when he felt that the Nazi was already hard his face twisted. Twisted in repulsion, hate and disgust during every pump and knead, and Abraham didn’t even try to hide it when his chin was tilted up with one finger.

But his glare only encouraged the German.

“Oh, yes…” Eichhorst relished, letting his eyes wilt in inflated ecstasy with his thin lips as he leaned back against the table. “You _are_ good.” He murmured, feeding his own ego as he pat the top of the Jew’s head like a dog – which was almost how he saw him.

A230385 was like the pet Herr Thomas Eichhorst had always wanted, a talented and subservient favorite – _his favorite_ – and Eichhorst’s arrogance only seared with each pump. His pride swelling, just like his cock, and he thrust into Abraham’s fist with a vainglorious growl and snigger when nearing his climax.

And when it came Abraham took the opportunity to shy away in a rise and step, thinking that was all the German wanted: _a simple release_. Except when Eichhorst’s gaze was still glued to him, hair flatter against his hat and mouth parted in a delicate smile, Abraham’s heart nearly stopped.

Especially when the Nazi snatched his shoulder, fingers through the fabric of his striped pajamas like rouge needles, and Abraham tried to yank himself free again, or at least get himself around the other side of the table. But he was halted by words – harsh words, freezing him like a lake in winter.

“Stop— aufhören!” Eichhorst's German slipped like his self-control as he spun Abraham around and pinned him between the table and his body before eagerly working on his belt. And once he was finished he began pulling down the Jew’s pants, dropping them in a scoff as he ran a hand over the exposed backside.

Abraham tensed at the notion, twisting his neck to get a bitter angle or maybe ask for a pardon, but he didn’t get the chance. Eichhorst met him halfway, leaning just inches from his face with softened features – just like his tone.

“Do not worry, A230385.” Eichhorst hushed, squeezing one rump. His head bobbing loosely like the cold was wooing him to sleep with its windy lullaby beyond the walls, the alcohol the milk he’d just drank. “I'll be gentle.”

It was almost cooed like he was talking to a baby, easy to understand, easy to accept. But it wasn't… and neither was he gentle.

Eichhorst pushed himself into Abraham like a nail into wood, ignoring the resistance and gripes as he rolled his hips, rutting the Jew and jutting him like a sex depraved lout riding a donkey. This was war, after all, and most of the commanders were lonely and had already forgotten the touch of a woman… and a man’s touch was no different. It was just something to fuck, something to fondle, to hold and manipulate.

And that’s exactly what he was doing with the carpenter – _controlling_.

Eichhorst shoved Abraham’s head deeper into the table and held him steady, ignoring the squirms and protests by drowning them with his own noise. The growls with his thrusts, the moans with his shudders, and a drone at the fact that Abraham was so taut, _tight_ , and clenching down around his cock. Willingly or not, it didn’t matter, but Eichhorst loosened his grip anyways, almost like a reward.

_All I could think about was the dagger. The silver dagger that I had whisked from the pile beyond my cage and hidden weeks prior. It was still beneath the workbench, taped under the table, safe from sight, and I reached for it…_

Slowly, Abraham snaked one of his arms under his body and his workbench, fingers brushing the underside in one pat, two. But they hesitated when Eichhorst’s hat bumped the back of his head, followed by a nose pressed to his ear which stifled a giddy laugh.

“Das ist gut.” Eichhorst breathed lightly as he straightened himself, groping one of Abraham’s ridged shoulders like he was admiring the firmness and obedience before he finished a longer thrust. A stimulating thrust, gentler too, and the Jew retracted his fist to rest by his head.

_No. The dagger wasn’t meant for Eichhorst, I remembered. I was saving it for another, saving it for the thing that murdered my brother… The Master. If the knife was taken from me then I wouldn’t have been able to protect myself from a death I was certain was coming. Something far worse than humiliation— I realize that now._

And Abraham accepted it. He stopped his fighting, his rebellion, and listened painfully to his own gags and moans bouncing off the empty walls around, the workshop he’d lost so much time in – along with sweat, and now blood. He could feel a strand dripping from his bottom lip where he’d teethed when feeling his own climax twisting his pants, one he didn’t want to release.

And as if the gods were listening, the roof above rumbled and dust fell, grafting some movement in the neighboring cell too, which had Eichhorst withdrawing like he thought someone had come in. Except it was only a loose tool giving into gravity, and the German leaned back, splaying one hand and pressing it into the middle of Abraham’s spine with a pant. A pant like he was unsatisfied with his performance – or maybe just craving more, Abraham couldn’t tell.

He was just glad it was over.

“Get back to work.” Eichhorst patted the Jew’s side before he stepped away to zip up with a grunt. A noise that made him sound irritated – which he was. But it was more directed towards the war that had interrupted him and cut his pleasure short. And without so much as a glance around the room, Herr Thomas Eichhorst left as quickly as he had come, leaving the Jew to pick up the pieces and his pants.

_That moment felt like a lifetime to me, leaving me feeling abused… hollow. Hollow because I knew that it wasn’t going to be the last I’d see of Eichhorst— he’d find me again, one way or another. It was only a matter of time…_

BELOW GRAND CENTRAL TERMINAL, MANHATTAN – PRESENT DAY

“I was weak back then. Just a naïve, young man with no voice, no identity… only a number.” Setrakian stated tediously, speaking his mind as he tried to move past that unforgettable evening even though it had been permanently etched into his memories – just like the digits on his arm.

“A230385.” Eichhorst hummed, his pasty skin as superficial as his smile and petite blink. “Back then you were _obedient_.” He almost seemed to sulk when he said it, but no such emotion was in his eyes as they slit sideways. They were as dead as the cells in his body, but as ambitious as the vile strain running through his veins. “What is to be done about you?”

It was asked modestly, but Setrakian didn’t let his vision stray or falter. Not when it was weary enough as it was, and only became more defined by his squint, which held like the silence until Eichhorst shrugged dreamily at the bare train platform around.

“I would ask you for another hand job, but…” The German’s tongue wagged, giddying at his choice of words like they were a new and modern toy he picked up over the recent years as he quirked a brow at the crotch of his own pants – pants as ashen as his soul. “I am afraid you actually _might_ just cut it off this time.”

Eichhorst’s grin grew wider, his teeth peeking past his pink lips as he wrinkled his nose at his own amusement, which wasn’t surprising. Perversion and rudeness suited the man’s Nazi tutelage, after all, and he comparably nodded up to Sardu’s sword in the Jew’s grasp with a scatty snicker – sounding more like a jester than a predator about to feast on its prey.

Though it was still enough to make Setrakian tighten his grip on his cane. “You assume… right.” He grit, speech garbled, like every word took his breath away, which wasn’t far from truth – old age was making him feel ancient. Especially when faced against a man who hadn’t aged a day. A man that, six decades ago, he _actually_ felt sorry for…

But sympathy was outdated thanks to their scarce run-ins, destabilizing everything they’d built over the years, just like Setrakian’s body – his arthritis reaping him of strength and leaving him a fragile, old man. Particularly as the days grew colder; cold like the morning Eichhorst sentenced him to be executed at the trenches, seeing as his one, good trait as a woodcarver was rendered useless.

His services spent and his dues paid…

And that betrayal was on Setrakian’s mind when he lashed out at Eichhorst with his caned sword, not of the humiliation that night but of the hardships he’d endured the long winters after. Yes. It had to be for that reason and that reason only, Setrakian told himself, as he swung again.

But the German was fast, using his influence and inhumane speed to strike a firm hold before pulling his enemy closer, slitting his eyes darkly. He _could_ turn the Jew, he lulled, turn him then stand back and watch if Setrakian had the gall to end his own life – which he probably did. Though that didn’t mean it would be any less entertaining, and Eichhorst almost grew stiff at the mere thought of being cursed through fire until death.

It sounded like his wet dream. Ja, a very _good_ dream. But maybe a tab bit too merciful. If he wanted to be cruel, which the former-Nazi enjoyed more than being coy, he could just simply add the Jew to his next meal plan, seeing as the filth confined in his chambers was becoming more of a rambling pest than food.

The thought cracked Eichhorst’s lips, but almost enigmatically and no higher than his ears when he cocked his head, like he expected the Jew to be dead in the next five minutes.

But Setrakian wasn’t dying today, not when there was still air miraculously squeezing into his lungs. Squeezing like his face, which was silently vowing to never show fear again – a fear that haunted him since the day he escaped over the camp’s barbwire fences and bolted into the woods like he was fleeing for his life.

Which he was.

Except those days were over, just like the Second World War, and as both monster and man wrestled on the station platform for dominance no more words were said. Not even when Eichhorst pinched Abraham’s throat tighter, the stinger inside his own dancing free as he mulled over how the Jew’s elderly hands weren’t as strong as they used to be. Weak – just like his heart.

But that didn’t mean Thomas Eichhorst admired Abraham Setrakian’s _tenacity_ any less…

**Author's Note:**

> .................So not sorry.


End file.
